A D'veen Tale: The Tragedy of the Magiri People

February Flash Fiction Day #2 - Prompt "everything she hears, she draws. Everything she draws comes to life" (This limited timestory is a tie-in with Bradley Ramsey's world of D'veen)

The Magiri were a magical people in many ways, none of which were as unique as the ephemeral form they inhabited. The Magiri were not physically bound as you and I may find ourselves bound; their dispersed forms made them pervasive entities who flittered like leaves on the wind, coasted as rivulets of water down the spine of a great tree, and rove through porous rock and soil as though they were the soul of the very world. These gracious wanderers were of nature in a way precluded to others, a unique mix of individual life as experienced through ecological cycles.

Among the curious Magiri so long ago was a lovely little one called Lorellai. A gifted artist, she spent her days experiencing life, listening to the breath and bustle of a world teeming. The art entrusted to Lorellai—by whom, we know not—was a whimsical mixture of drawing and dance. Without a centralized, physical body, Lorellai drew by concentrating her energies in the very atmosphere of the world. Swirling her body to and fro, she performed the act of creation.

One day as she began her swirl, Lorellai listened to the world around her. Inspired by the melodious call of the Magiri Waxwing, her ephemeral form flowed this way and that. Her energies focused and magics converged on the sound of that call, and when her dance stopped, when her drawing ceased, out flew a Waxwing to a nearby tree. As the Waxwing lighted upon a branch and began eating berries, Lorellai held back a squeal of excitement for this day she discovered the life-giving powers of her act of creation.

She began testing the limits of her power with increasing boldness. Soon after the creation of the Waxwing, Lorellai felt the rhythm of the river’s currents thumping through the marsh below her home on a hill. Her energies again coalesced as she drew what she heard and felt, the stores of energies cresting and flowing forth in imitation of those welcoming waters below.

The culmination of her act of creation was again a new entity to the world of D’veen. Where once a row of wildflowers blossomed, a small creek surged down her hill toward a pond near trees and would forever more give life to the beings of that vale.

Lorellai’s life would then on be defined by her drawings in the sky, and the creations she brought to life. She experienced the world by listening to it and creating. Her days of drawing and dancing were not impeded by thoughts of death or concerns of lasting legacy, because her transient form understood innately the transience of life itself.

Then on one night, the eve of great misery, storm clouds rode the wind in ominous portent. Lorellai overheard a council of Magiri elders discussing plans for their people. The elders sought to wield the sciences toward a new type of magic—a magic which would unveil to them the secret to everlasting life.

“We mustn’t be too hasty, of course. All propositions are on the table; we know not from whence inspiration may strike!” Elder Helgran said to the council.

“We must continue to delve into the sciences, lay not your eternal hopes upon the fleeting magics of D’veen,” Elder Tralphi retorted.

“Your work in the sciences proves but one thing,” Helgran said. “That discovery is to be had only by he who casts the widest net. Let us cast far and wide for that which we seek for if death is to be evaded, all our resources it may cost.”

“May we not consider the talents of our own people?” Elder Grasniar asked.

“You wouldn’t suppose…” Helgran started.

“No, we cannot call upon her aid in this affair,” Tralphi said.

“But is it not of the highest, noblest calling?” Grasniar asked. “Our fair people, meant to evade death and decay by the magics and creations of our own Lorellai?”

“I forewarn this now, council,” Tralphi said, “Lorellai may unwittingly be made to usher in the destruction of our people. We do not know the full breadth of her power, and such dearth of knowledge may harm us in the end.”

Despite Tralphi’s protests, the council sought Lorellai’s aid in their quest for everlasting life. They found her presence aloft in the sun’s rays, drifting down to the pond’s surface, and nuzzling the leaves atop her favorite tree. Their ask was simple:

“Lorellai, help the Magiri people evade death. Help us evade decay. Through your art of creation, concoct a scroll of everlasting life through which we may cast death from our concerns. Our bodies are transient, but our souls may not be, should you prepare such a scroll that not even death could abrogate.”

Lorellai reluctantly consented, though her heart ached at the thought. She had never performed the art of creation out of any feeling other than appreciation and admiration. The plea from the council shook her energies for they focused on the negatives of life, never rejoicing at the fact that life was given at all.

As Lorellai started her swirls and her drawings, her usual exaltation was replaced by a dreadful worrying. She saw in her swirls a life of want, fleeting moments of happiness surrounded by dark seas of sadness, and a fear of death that overrode all else. She recalled the council’s plea, recalled what she heard, but realized too late the mistake the council made. Their plea, focused on death, bore on her mind too heavy a weight to handle. Her borderless form became claustrophic and the drawing and dancing transformed into an act of destruction.

When a scroll fell from the sky into which Lorellai drew, the Elder council lunged at it greedily. They read the scroll at once, whooping for cheer, before the lives of the Magiri ceased.

For what Lorellai hears, Lorellai draws.